


The Thing

by kelex



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, M/M, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: The thing between Crowley and Aziraphale comes to a head when Crowley is enlisted to help get rid of Heaven's portal in Aziraphale's bookshop.  Things do not go according to plan (but with these two, when do they ever?)





	The Thing

**Author's Note:**

> @slavetomykeyboard was far too kind to me, because they not only provided the photos of the preeners (find them at the end of the fic!) but also helped me with the basics of how wings work and how to properly preen! @silvarbelle was instrumental, as was Corvi the Corgi. Much love to my badass trio. I'm lucky to know you all.

It began precisely 6,001 days, twelve hours, and eighteen minutes past the beginning of the world. 

Of course, there are those who might argue that It began a little bit earlier than that, say, about four months after the beginning of the world, and if they want to make that argument, well, good for them. They're entitled.

They're also absolutely wrong.

Because, you see, the It in question didn't really become a Thing until after the end of the world. You remember it, the one that didn't actually happen.

* * *

It began simply, as do all things, with a lunch date at the Ritz. A nightingale was singing in Berkeley Square, the sun was still shining brightly, and two beings were toasting the world.

Beings, I say, because while both appeared to be human, neither actually was. For you see, Crowley was a demon, and Aziraphale was an angel. They had been friends, yes, for 5,999 years and seven months, with an Arrangement between them, and while Aziraphale and Crowley both would have really not wanted to admit, the friendship between them was actually the basis for the Thing that developed. 

But because Crowley and Aziraphale both loved the world, they had gone against both Head Offices, together, and convinced the Antichrist ( _ Lovely child _ , Aziraphale would point out, _ quite willing to save the world on his own, you know. He just needed a little help from us _ .  _ Do shut up _ , was Crowley's full discourse on the subject.) that he could save the world, rather than end it. 

Which he had done, and that included rebooting all of reality, which in turn returned Aziraphale's bookshop to its pristine state and Crowley's beloved Bentley to its former glory, complete with James Bond bullet-hole-in-the-windscreen decals that he'd had since 1967.

And all of that ended up with a principality of Heaven and a demon of Hell sharing a platter of oysters that certainly wasn't on the Ritz menu, alongside veal fillets that were a specialty of the house, and crepes Suzette prepared at the table, just for old time's sake. It was all discreetly accompanied by a rather expensive bottle of Bollinger Vieilles Vignes Françaises 2005 that they were toasting with, and would be finished back at the bookshop with a bottle of Aziraphale's Chateauneuf-du-Pape. 

"Not a bad way to spend the afternoon, eh, angel?" Crowley was sprawled in his chair at the table, as if it were quite too much trouble to sit upright. Then again, it was quite possible that it was.

"Not bad at all." Aziraphale was quite satisfied with things, really. His bookshop was just the way he'd left it, down to the rug-covered sigil that he intended to rip up that very evening. "Perhaps I could ask you for a small favor?"

The corner of Crowley's mouth turned upwards as he looked over at the angel. 

Aziraphale gave a slightly flustered cough. "There's a gateway back at the bookshop I'd rather like to get rid of, and I was hoping that you might assist me."

One of Crowley's eyebrows became barely visible behind the dark glasses. "And you'd like me to do what, exactly? Burn it?"

"Actually, yes. It has to be activated, but I feel as though it's simply an invitation to..." he pointed upwards quickly. "...trouble. If you burnt it with infernal fire, I'd sleep much better, so to speak."

The upturn of Crowley's mouth lifted a little higher. "All right, guess I could do that. But I'm not paying damages, that's all on you."

"Oh, that's not a problem. I own the building, and if you do damage anything, well, small price to pay." Aziraphale drained the last of his champagne, and placed the empty glass almost primly on the table. "Shall we go?"

"After you, angel."

* * *

No one, except perhaps Aziraphale, would be allowed to live if they had called Crowley  _ fussy. _ Except, however, that was precisely what was happening inside the bookshop.

“My dear Crowley, that is absolutely ridiculous,” Aziraphale pointed out. “I shall not stand outside my shop like… like a  _ customer _ because you’re being a bit fussy about things.”

“Infernal fire is dangerous, especially to your type,” Crowley pointed out needlessly. “And if it singes your wings, they don’t grow back.” He knelt by the uncovered portal, giving it a thorough glaring. He expected it to quake as his plants did, but it disappointed him. “You’re going to stand outside in case this goes out of control. And if your Head Office happens to activate the portal, all they’ll find is a demon trying to destroy it.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale hadn’t quite thought of that, especially since he and Crowley were both out of sorts with their respective Head Offices. “That’s quite kind of you--”

“Shut it!” Crowley pointed at his angel. “Outside, now, or I’ll burn something else, like that hideous tie.”

“All right, all right.” Aziraphale kept his kind thoughts to himself and hurried out the door. The overhead bell tinkled, and Crowley snapped his fingers to turn the locks. Aziraphale heard both finger snap and locks turn, and he smiled. The demon really was trying to keep him safe.

Once the locks were thrown, Crowley turned his attention back to the portal. He walked around the outside edge, kicking over candles as he went. Another snap of his fingers sent a spurt of demonic flame speeding around the perimeter to form a perfect circle.

Outside the shop, Aziraphale cupped his hands against the glass as he peered in at the flickering flames. He rapped gently for Crowley’s attention, and was only partly scandalized by the answering rude hand gesture.

Inside the shop, Crowley was scowling. Usually the force of his willpower could burn--or not burn-sheet metal and leather, but no matter how much he willed it, the bloody sigil  _ just wouldn’t burn. _ He dispelled the flames immediately, glaring in disgust at the charred black ring around the unburnt gateway. “Get back in here, angel!” Crowley shouted, undoing the locks. 

The bell tinkled again. “That certainly didn’t take lo--oh.” He took in the burnt carpet and unburnt portal, concluding that “Oh, that didn’t work.”

Crowley hissed in disgust, forked tongue flickering out. “Noticed that, did you?”

Actually, he had. “Er, I had a thought out there, that perhaps holy water might wash it away, especially now since it seems immune to fire.”

Crowley hopped up onto Aziraphale’s desk, perching like an imp. “You’re on your own with that one,” he called out.

“Well of course I am!” Aziraphale snapped. “I should make  _ you _ go stand outside,” he continued crossly. “Holy water can splash just as easily as fire burns.”

Crowley smirked. “Not up here, unless you want your lovely books to get all wet.” He didn’t for a moment worry that Aziraphale would douse him or flick water at him or bring him to harm in any way. It was much more fun to take the mickey out.

He barely spared a glance over Crowley’s way. “Just don’t move, all right? I’ve a rain barrel out back, I just need to draw up a bucket and bless it.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Crowley remained quite still.

“Have a drink, won’t you?” Aziraphale shouted over his shoulder. The barrel was about three-quarters full, and he fetched up a pitcher from the shop’s back room and dipped it full. 

Darting his eyes about guiltily, Aziraphale quickly spoke the Words of Purification in High Enochian. The water swirled gently in the pitcher then stilled, crystal clear. He carried the ceramic vessel rather like a grenade with the pin pulled. Crowley was still perched on the desk, but was sipping from a cognac snifter. A second glass filled with amber liquid sat waiting.

“That’s making my skin crawl.”

At that, the angel brightened a bit. “Wasn’t sure that would still work.” 

Crowley reached over his shoulder. The air in the bookshop rippled, and when it cleared, Crowley was holding a black feather. “Try this, then.” Pursing his lips, he puffed out a sharp breath that sent the feather dancing across the bookshop.

Aziraphale gasped, plucking the precious gift out of the air. “My dear!”

Crowley glowered. “Came loose during the last molting.” He thought the glower made him look more sinister, and not at all nice.

To Aziraphale, it was endearing. “This is wonderful, thank you.” Before Crowley could complain about the kindness, Aziraphale turned around and dropped the feather into the pitcher.

Immediately, the feather began to shrivel and smoke. The water rolled and frothed furiously where the feather touched it, and once it was destroyed utterly, the water became placid and crystal clear once again. 

“I’d say that worked.” Crowley’s voice was devoid of its usual flippancy. “Watch yourself with that.” 

“It can’t hurt me, but you’re a darling to worry.” With a great deal of care to prevent splashes, Aziraphale tipped the pitcher over and thoroughly doused the sigil. To his surprise, the water stayed within the confines of the burnt circle.

It also activated the portal. The Quartermaster’s face appeared, disembodied and floating. “This gateway has suffered unauthorized tampering. All Celestial beings in the vicinity shall be immediately recalled and the gateway destroyed.”

“No!” Aziraphale shouted, his wings unfurling in the gateway’s pull.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s glass hit the floor as he vaulted off the desk. He was panicking quite a bit, and he grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and pulled. A face full of feathers was his reward, and he spat one feather out. “Flap, you stupid angel! Fight it!”

Aziraphale stretched his full wingspan, beating a downdraft against the pull of the gateway.

Crowley unfurled his wings as well, adding the power of a second set of beating wings. The gateway absorbed it all, shielding the shop from damage though neither being noticed.

“Crowley, let me go before they take us both!” Aziraphale cried out, even as he fought the Heavenly pull. 

“Like Hell!” the demon grunted. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s chest, and after that, his tail snaked out to wrap around the angel’s waist like a belt. “This is probably going to hurt,” he warned.

Aziraphale didn’t even get a moment to contemplate Crowley’s warning. He felt the demon’s grip tighten, and before the next breath, a tongue of flame shot into the gateway. Aziraphale screamed as it licked across his topmost wing feathers, the pain exquisite and almost beyond comprehension. It seared every holy cell of his corporeal being, his Celestial soul scorching to his core. 

As quickly as the pain began, it was over.

The gateway snapped closed with a pop, collapsing in on itself in a pinprick of too-bright light that slowly faded.

Crowley and Aziraphale landed in an undignified heap. Black and white feathers mixed, floating aimlessly. Crowley was lying on his wings, crumpled painfully, but with Aziraphale clutched triumphantly to his chest. The tip of the angel’s wing was sheared off, with several layers of feathers scorched and ragged. “Oh, Aziraphale. I’m so sorry.” 

“You saved me.” Aziraphale couldn’t keep the amazement and gratitude out of his voice, even though it was still overshadowed by pain. “I really can’t complain.” He struggled to sit up, gently prying Crowley’s tail loose from his waist.

He’d forgotten about the tail. As it slithered back into his body, Crowley helped Aziraphale straighten. “Let me see.”

With a slight wince, Aziraphale pulled his wings back so that Crowley could make his examination. “You could have been killed.”

Crowley steadfastly ignored that as he studied the injured wing. Hell, when was the last time he’d tried this? 1300s? 1400s? Usually he’d have let Aziraphale handle the healing, but he’d already been in Wales--that was it! Wales, 1316, for the Madog ap Llywelyn uprising. So he’d done the healing of a young boy in the countryside while he’d been there. 700 years, but he knew he still had the goods. 

Rubbing his hands together, Crowley exhaled slowly, centered his thoughts, and laid his hands on Aziraphale’s wing. A warmth tingled in the tips of his fingers, proof that  _ something _ was happening, and he poured everything he was into his hands. 

Aziraphale gasped again. A wonderful feeling of warmth and  _ love _ washed over him in waves, soothing the deep tendrils of agony that had rooted in his wing. He knew, instinctively, what Crowley was doing; he felt it in every cell. He didn’t say a word, simply closing his eyes and offering his own power to help. 

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s essence coiling around his own and he welcomed it. With a grunt, the combined healing energy surged out of Crowley’s hands like a stuck throttle, and finally he could feel the wingtip regrowing under his touch.

He let his hands fall as he slumped backwards. Aziraphale’s wing was completely healed, and Crowley was suddenly exhausted. Luckily a sturdy bookshelf was close enough to keep him from falling over entirely. “That should be good as new.” 

A test ruffle sent a stack of papers fluttering about, and several damaged feathers hung spiritlessly in the air before landing sadly on the carpet. But the wing itself worked perfectly, the pain gone.

“At least the portal is gone,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. A bare circle surrounded by a charred ring was all that remained. The carpet wasn’t the least bit damp, which made him quite ecstatic. “And so is the holy water.”

“And the flame,” Crowley pointed out. He retracted his wings and looked around the shop. “No damage, looks like.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on the broken liquor glasses, the spilt cognac, the scattered paper, and the ruined carpet. “No damage to speak of,” he agreed, and got to his feet. He’d miracle away the rest tomorrow. “Crowley…”

“What?” His head was still resting against the bookshelf, even as his shoulders moved to accommodate his retracting wings. 

Aziraphale shifted nervously. He’d meant to ask about the healing, but lost his nerve. “How are you feeling after that?”

Even in his exhaustion, Crowley’s lips quirked upwards. Trust Aziraphale to worry about him. “Well enough,” was Crowley’s answer. “Tired, a bit.”

“I expect it’s more than a bit.” Aziraphale got to his feet, turning to take Crowley in. The demon’s glasses were shattered and hanging off one ear, so Aziraphale gently removed them and pitched them into the dustbin. He straightened Crowley’s jacket, smoothed out the rucked-up collar, and arranged his tie into the usual tidy dishevelment he associated with Crowley. “There, all spit-spot.”

If he hadn’t been exhausted, Crowley would’ve rolled his eyes, but  _ spit-spot _ gave him the final push of annoyance that sent his eyes spinning. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He held his hand out.

Aziraphale clasped it warmly, helping haul Crowley to his feet. “There’s a lilo in the back room if you don’t care for the sofa,” he reminded helpfully. The air mattress had been a gift from a supplier several years ago, and he’d only kept it for Crowley, in case the demon had ever needed a kip. “Go ahead and get yourself some rest.”

“Might do, at that.” He knew his way around the shop and headed for the sofa. “You’re not going to open today, are you?”

“Goodness no. Nor tomorrow, nor the week. I’ll post a sign,  _ Mr. Fell is on vacation, shop closed until further notice, _ ” Aziraphale answered. “Go on, you won’t be disturbed.”

“Right. Thanks for the kip, see you later.” Disappearing into the darkened storeroom, Crowley draped his long frame over the sofa, toed off his boots, and fell almost instantly asleep.

* * *

Crowley woke from his nap a full forty-eight hours after he’d fallen asleep. ( _ Practically catatonic, _ was Aziraphale’s opinion, which Crowley ignored.) In the first moments he wasn’t really aware of why he’d wakened, but in the next heartbeat he heard Aziraphale tutting and fussing about in the shop proper. Ruffling his fingers through his hair, Crowley yawned his way off the sofa as he tugged on his boots. “Oi, Angel! What’s all that about?”

“It’s absolutely dreadful. Just look at my shop!” Aziraphale sounded distraught.

“What’s drea--ohhhh,” he drawled, comprehending instantly. “Ah.”

The entire shop was dusted in white feathers. It looked as if a feather mattress had exploded inside the shop. The scattered papers still hadn’t been tidied yet, and the carpet sweeper leaned haphazardly against an overflowing dustbin. “It’s been like this for days; every time I do anything, poof! I lose more feathers!”

“It’s not serious,” Crowley reassured. “The damaged ones are just coming out where new growth happened,” he explained gently. 

“I don’t care! I don’t like it and I would really rather it stopped, sooner rather than later!” Aziraphale, who certainly did not pout, was doing exactly that.

Crowley had seen that look many times over the millennia, and it was always immediately followed by Crowley doing exactly what the angel asked. No need to be coy, then. “Sit down, then, and I’ll have a look.”

“That’d be a dear thing, thank you.” Aziraphale sat cross-legged on the floor, and slowly unfurled his wings. 

Crowley nearly choked, and he knew his eyes were wide, almost like a cat’s, so he forced himself into some semblance of control. “Did--did you…”

Aziraphale gave a miserable nod. “There was just so much I couldn’t reach.”

“I can see that.” Not one feather pointed in the same direction as any other. Loose and molted feathers stuck out randomly in every direction. The previously injured wing was still perfectly healed and functional, which Crowley was pleased to see, but the grooming was just… “Can I…”  _ perform another miracle, perhaps? _

“Oh, yes, please do! Feel free!” Aziraphale’s wings trembled, and Crowley could’ve sworn he was… getting a wiggle out.

Crowley snapped his fingers, summoning his grooming kit from his flat. “Did you bless the whole barrel?”

“What, out back? Certainly not,” and Aziraphale sounded so affronted that Crowley would have even considered it. “Far too dangerous to leave that much holy water lying around.”

Dangerous to himself, perhaps, and therefore too dangerous for Aziraphale to risk. Despite himself, Crowley smiled with unbridled affection behind Aziraphale’s back. “All right, close up your wings and take off your coat. I need to refill my mister and then we can get going.” 

He left Aziraphale, still tutting, as he filled the green plant mister from the rain barrel. Between the cobblestones of the alleyway, a green dandelion tried to work its way through the stones. Crowley gave the plant a shot of water from the mister, then glared at it. “Next time I see you, you better be standing tall,” he ordered, and was pleased to see the plant ruffle its leaves. “That’s right. I want to see you growing through that stone. Push it up out of the way.” Perfect for someone-not-Aziraphale to trip over. 

Aziraphale was naked to the waist when Crowley came back into the room, and he sort of had to remind himself to breathe. (Technically, he did not need to breathe, however, his body certainly did.) “Er, ready to go?”

“Yes, please.” Aziraphale extended his wing again, keeping the unharmed wing draped over his shoulder. 

Crowley sat on the floor behind Aziraphale, his long legs spreading around Aziraphale’s hips as he scooted forward, closer to the wing. “All right, I promise this won’t hurt a bit.” 

“I know.” Aziraphale settled himself back against Crowley comfortably. “Just let me know if I have to move.”

“Sure will.” Crowley summoned the grooming kit to within his reach, and he opened the lid. Inside lay five silver preeners, antique pieces that started in a claw and led down the length of his fingers like armor. He fitted each preener to his digits, then flexed them while with the other hand, he sprayed Aziraphale’s feathers with a light mist of water. 

The feathers stopped stirring in the air, stopped ruffling with Crowley’s breathing. The water weighted them just enough to keep them still, and Crowley began to preen. He started at the tip of Aziraphale’s wing, just stroking down with the claws and gently loosening all the molted or damaged feathers. He was careful with each preen, so that any newly grown feathers would not be damaged. 

At the first touch of water to his wings, Aziraphale closed his eyes. He felt them cooling in the air as the water evaporated like sweat, but he wasn’t prepared for the sensation of  _ claws. _ He nearly jumped in surprise as he felt the sharp tips rake through his wing, but instead, found himself shivering in something close to pleasure. “C-Crowley?”

“Feels good, doesn’t it, angel?” Crowley had to grin, because the timbre of Aziraphale’s voice was nothing short of ecstatic. “Told you it wouldn’t hurt.” He flexed his fingers again, causing the preening claws to twitch. 

An unexpected groan jolted out of Aziraphale with the twitch of claws. “You didn’t mention  _ this, _ ” Aziraphale pointed out. 

“Kind of like having your hair washed, innit?” He had nearly finished the tip, shaking the dead feathers off his preeners before stroking his undecorated hand down the grain of the feathers, smoothing them out and feeling how silky they felt. 

“I don’t know, I’ve never had my hair washed by anyone but my barber,” Aziraphale answered, and it would have been a lot more prim and proper had he not let out another soft groan. 

“Missing out, angel.” Crowley moved down the joint, leaving the tip and dragging his claws through the first section of the wing joint. “Lift just a bit, would you?”

Aziraphale did as he was asked, raising his wing and unfurling it a little straighter to assist Crowley. Crowley licked his lips and ran the sharp points of the claws right over the pinfeathers, then up the next row to tickle the feather shafts. They were all healthy feathers, so nothing fell and he didn’t pluck anything out, just ruffled them and smoothed them down so they weren’t standing out all directions. But the closer he got to the top of the wing, where his fire had sheared, the feathers were newer, more tender, and some still had not shed their protective covering. 

He still felt the urge to apologize, but he bit it back as he inspected the healing job he’d done close up. It was nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the wing, save for a tiny line of black scarring. Once the feathers were brushed down, the scarring would be hidden. Just a tiny imperfection. 

“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder when Crowley stopped preening. 

“No, nothing’s wrong.” Crowley shook his head, and carefully dragged his claws through the new growth. Old feathers and singed feathers came out attached to his claws, and he blew them off. 

Aziraphale gave a full-body shudder as Crowley’s breath ruffled over his wing, sensitized by the grooming that was going on. “Good Lord, Crowley!”

Crowley’s grin, which had fallen when he’d caught sight of the scarring, widened again. “Sorry about that. Wings get sensitive when they’re properly groomed.” Which just told him that the angel had probably never had properly groomed wings, or that perhaps demonic wings were more sensitive by virtue of having already been burned once and recovered.

Reaching out, Aziraphale braced his hand on Crowley’s thigh, fingers digging in. “Yes, well. Sensitive.”

Crowley’s claw strokes almost faltered when Aziraphale’s hand gripped his leg. He scooted in a little closer, giving Aziraphale more leg to grab as he moved in. But he kept the strokes steady, knocking dead feathers off his metal claws with a shake of his hand. His bare fingers combed the feathers into line, smoothing the ruffles and straightening the odd feather that Crowley’s preening missed. 

Then he scrunched his fingers together, massaging the muscle and flesh beneath the wing joints. It felt cool and healthy, damp from the mister and supple from recent use. He could feel the blood--divine ichor, or whatever you wanted to call the liquid that flowed in angelic (and demonic) veins--flowing under his fingertips from the massage. 

The back of Aziraphale’s head thudded hard against Crowley’s shoulder, and he shuddered. Gasping breaths wracked the angel’s body as he leaned against Crowley, and he couldn’t manage to open his eyes. 

Crowley couldn’t help the nuzzle he gave against Aziraphale’s neck. “Almost finished, angel. Nearly there.” He wasn’t lying; the tissue massage was usually the last thing he did to his own wings, but he wasn’t being entirely truthful either. He had no intention of stopping. 

“Nearly there,” Aziraphale repeated, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he was actually repeating. His wing felt lighter already, and it trembled under Crowley’s massage. Feathers had stopped falling moments before, but the massage was making Aziraphale a little light-headed. 

Crowley’s legs were pressed along the outside of Aziraphale’s legs, keeping the angel tucked in between them. The arch backwards had pressed Aziraphale’s back to Crowley’s chest, and Crowley’s cheek was still nuzzled into the angel’s neck. He risked a quick drag of his teeth down Aziraphale’s throat, but followed it in the next instant with a gentle squeeze of Aziraphale’s wingtip. 

Aziraphale felt the attention on his throat, could not speak, wrote it off to Crowley’s moving about to care for the wing. In the next instant it was overshadowed entirely, a guttural grunt spilling out as his shoulders contracted tightly, and then relaxed. 

He lay limply against Crowley, letting the demon support him for a very long moment. Crowley didn’t seem to mind in the least. 

Aziraphale lying back against him was a sensation that he’d never expected to feel. He let his hand gently rub between Aziraphale’s shoulders, between the wings and where they connected to his shoulders and back. 

The soft rub was a perfectly relaxing feeling, and Aziraphale stretched as Crowley rubbed. He felt boneless, still, almost rubbery. His wings flapped once, and Crowley hid his face in Aziraphale’s neck to keep from getting swatted. 

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley nestled into him. That was… oddly comforting, in a way, and something he was not at all displeased over. “Crowley?” 

“Yeah?” The demon straightened at the call of his name, and started to pull the claws off. He’d polish them later, give them a good oiling before tucking them back in the closet, but he dropped them into the grooming kit for the moment. 

Shrugging his shoulders, Aziraphale re-furled his wings, disappearing them entirely into his back. “Thank you, for that,” is all he said at first, without moving. “Some day you will have to show me how to do that.”

“Not easy to do it for yourself,” he pointed out. “Demons took a couple millennia to figure it out, but once we did…”

“Not for myself,” came the interruption. “I’d like to do it for you some day.” 

“Oh.” Crowley swallowed hard, because that had not been at all what he expected. 

“Speechless?” Aziraphale leaned all the way back again, so that he was pressed tightly against Crowley and tucked in against him. Deliberately he leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder, exposing his neck. “Then isn’t there something else you could be doing with your mouth?”

Shocked would not be the word for Crowley’s state. He didn’t say anything, just bent his head again and pressed a line of slow kisses along Aziraphale’s neck. His tongue licked teasingly around the curve of his Adam’s apple, his teeth nipped sharply at the curve of Aziraphale’s jawline. Before he got to his lips, however, Crowley pulled away. 

Tried to pull away. 

Aziraphale’s fingers had slid into Crowley’s hair, pulling him back down for a kiss. Their lips touched briefly, and Aziraphale chased for a longer, firmer kiss. Crowley obliged, his eyes closing as he turned Aziraphale’s head just slightly so the angle of the kiss was better. One of his legs curled over Aziraphale’s and his arm slid around the angel’s waist, pulling him against his groin and pulling the other leg in to hold him there. 

Awkwardly, since they were both still on the floor, Aziraphale disentangled himself from Crowley’s lap and got on his knees so they were face to face. After a long moment of staring into Crowley’s yellow eyes, he crawled forward and straddled Crowley’s lap, settling in against him. 

The demon’s arms came up to wrap around Aziraphale’s waist, and he looked up at Aziraphale with unabashed affection. “What are you doing, angel?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted, leaning forward and kissing Crowley again. His hands ruffled through Crowley’s hair, manicured nails scraping over his scalp. Crowley purred, arching his neck and pushing into the scratches like an over-eager cat starving for affection. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “But I think it’s Right.”

Crowley heard the capital R even in the spoken word. He licked his lips, tasting Aziraphale on them, and he let his hands slide up his bare back. “They find out you’re fraternising, Heaven just might re-think their promise to keep their hands off,” he pointed out slowly. “Hell, too.”

“Do you really care?” Aziraphale asked just as calmly, meeting Crowley’s eyes. “Because I will protect you, and I know you will protect me. And as you so aptly remind me, we are on our own side now. I think that means we stop thinking about what Heaven or Hell might think of us, or do to us. If we are truly on our own side, then all we have to worry about answering to is ourselves.” 

Crowley’s eyes crossed. “That’s… that’s too much to think about when I’ve got an angel in my lap,” he admitted, and let his forehead lean against Aziraphale’s bare chest. “I care only so far as keeping you safe.” 

Aziraphale bestowed a bright smile on Crowley. “I’m safe, thanks to you. You even fixed me up.” He got to his feet, and held out his hand. “Come on. I think you’ll fit.”

“Fit where?” Crowley let the angel help him up, and didn’t let go of his hand. 

“My bed. It’s a bit narrow, but if you don’t mind a little togetherness, I think we’ll both fit just nicely.” 

“I don’t mind if you don’t.” Crowley finally grinned, following Aziraphale up the stairs to the small flat over the shop. “Didn’t know you had a bedroom.” 

“Until now, I never had a need for it.”

The End


End file.
